


Why They Call it Falling

by Cassiebobassie



Series: Castiel, the Angel in our House [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, American Victorian cowboys, Angst, First Time, I promise, I swear, I will post in two weeks, Kansas in 1870, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Our heroes will ride off into the sunset together, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rancher!Dean, True Love, Virgin!Castiel, it's half written, one more stop on the angst train, the next stop is a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 01:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12876918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassiebobassie/pseuds/Cassiebobassie
Summary: After a disastrous attempt at intimacy with Dean, Cas tries to set things right and apologize. Can Cas set things right or will his falling for Dean only bring them both hurt?





	Why They Call it Falling

Soon the sun would rise and the rooster would crow, but Castiel refused to open his eyes. He had lain awake the last hour, ever since Dean abandoned the bed.  When Dean’s large body stirred the mattress and Castiel woke, he watched how Dean moved in the light shining form the few remaining flickering candles. Dean obviously aimed for silence and stillness. Castiel knew then that Dean wanted to leave without conversation, so he said nothing and pretended to sleep. The bed had chilled since then, and so had he. His body felt cold right through to his center. Castiel wondered if he would ever be warm again. 

His body continued to ache in strange places. One place on his body, a spot he could not name even in his mind without a shudder, still burned. He blushed. He worried. “Castiel Milton,” he asked himself in the darkness, rubbing his hands over his face and wiping at his eyes, “Have you ruined everything?”

He covered his mouth, unwilling to let trembling lips and stinging eyes turn into actual crying. Castiel Milton, the son of Lawrence’s renowned pastor Zacariah Milton, did not cry. Castiel Milton, town philanthropist, spent the minutes of his life serving the will of God and the will of his parents. He did not seek the attentions of young women, and certainly never men. Castiel Milton, town oddball, did not entertain suitors in his bedroom. At least before last night he did not.

Before last night, Castiel had known who he was. An amateur scientist, who studied botany, and etymology, and animal husbandry. The kind of person who bored every man and woman he knew with talks of bees and breeding horses. And he had acquaintances, but no true friends. No one to laugh with or confide in. No one to trust. No one to love. No one besides his family. 

Until Dean Winchester came to tea. Then Castiel Milton became Cas and everything changed. 

During his first tea with Dean, the energy and life that flooded the space around the man amazed him, took his breath away. When they first had tea together, he’d barely been able to speak he was so in awe at the soul of Dean Winchester, a man whose spirit seemed twice the size of the room they were in. When Dean and his brother spoke of taming chunks of land to graze their cattle, of driving them to Texas and back, of how much revenue they would bring in to Lawrence, of the ranch house they planned to build a little at a time, the man’s future seemed epic, nearly godlike, but within his power. As Cas looked at this man, he believed him capable of anything he set his mind to. 

Then Dean had aimed smiles in his direction. Castiel half felt like he’d discovered the sun. And it hadn’t ended there. Dean had made motions of friendship, asked for his advice on breeding stock. To be honest, Castiel didn’t have very clear memories of all the events that led to this point because he’d been half drunk from Dean’s attention. His father would say he’d been half mad. Perhaps his father would be right. Because after Dean was hurt, knocked off a horse on a standard day’s ride, Castiel couldn’t think of anything else but making Dean well again. 

Seeing Dean unconscious on the bed, drained of color, he’d imagined Dean gone, and didn’t think himself capable of a day without Dean in it. So Cas Milton had propositioned Dean. 

Where they were now… the tension between them… it was all Castiel’s fault. He knew that. He would make it right. He wanted to. But what _was_ right? He was so utterly lost. He wanted to apologize. But sorry wouldn’t help here. And he didn’t know what solutions remained. 

Last night, Dean had promised to make him feel good. But it had not been merely good. It had been much more than sex. Epic, heavenly, beyond what humans should experience. He’d felt his soul fly up and away, and he knew Dean would take his body some place even more special. And he had wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything. Dean’s fingers had touched a place inside him and made his body come alive in ways it had not before. Cas felt grace pour from his fingers and toes, he felt it zinging across his body. And as Dean moved inside him again and again, he felt warm and open, as though whatever separated him and Dean was melting away. And suddenly he had remembered his father’s recitation of scriptures, the words of Mark _and they two will become one flesh, so they are no longer two, but one_. And truly that is what he had felt with Dean. That he was soon going to cease being Cas Milton and melt utterly into Dean Winchester. And he did not regret it. He wished for it. He wanted to be one with Dean.

But then … Dean had pulled away for a brief moment, his hands and fingers gone. Cas felt empty and aching and desperate. Dean had taken his manhood and entered him fully. Cas had remembered then that Mark began with the lesson that God had made of them two flesh—one female and one male. Cas had been taught this and he should not forget it. He was not a woman. And he should not lie with Dean as though he were one. There would be no children, no family, from a union such as theirs. The union between two men was so strange as to be unspoken. And Castiel was afraid. 

His mind had buzzed like an angry nest with a dozen thoughts flying in every direction. And he couldn’t net them or corral them into order. He’d said things about his responsibility and his family and it cut right through all he had with Dean. He hadn’t been clear. His words had all come out wrong. He didn’t want to be Castiel Milton, the isolated ideal first born of his father’s parish. He certainly couldn’t be Dean Winchester’s wife. What—who—then was he supposed to be? Dean called him family, but how did two men build a life together?

As evening wandered into day, he still wondered. Who would he be? If he accepted all that Dean offered last night, if he had taken all that he himself wanted, who would he be?

Castiel was determined that he would begin tomorrow as he had most mornings since Dean entered his life. He would begin with looking for a letter from Dean. Finding it missing, he would write his own. They’d exchanged thoughts, jokes, puns, and talked of research and plans for Dean’s breeding program, sometimes in multiple missives a day. Castiel’s father had once teased that they sent so many notes in a single day, they’d need to devote a ranch hand and a servant to the task full time. In truth, letters did not run that often between them, not after they began to see each other more. The letters had not proved enough. But at first, Castiel and Dean had relied on letters to build their friendship. He had hopes letters could rebuild their bond.

In the letter, he might manage the words that he could not find last night.  He might be able to ask Dean for advice, not as a lover, but as a friend. Dean was a kind man, he would understand that Castiel wasn’t experienced. He would understand that Castiel, was confused even a little afraid. Dean had relationships with men and with women before, he must have some plan, some vision of where they were meant to be at the end of this—this, what was this? A friendship? A flirtation? Dean had not said, and he had been foolish enough not to ask. 

Yes, in the morning—whenever he decided he was willing to climb out of bed and face the day—in the morning, he would start one of his many letters with _Hello, Dean_ and trust that those words would bring him the joy they always had.

Three weeks later, his letters had brought him no joy at all. In fact, they’d brought no word from Dean at all. So when Castiel heard that Mr. Winchester was waiting downstairs, he nearly ran from his room half-dressed. He took just enough time to button his shirt and jogged down to the foyer, trying to knot a silk tie. Days and days had passed without news of Dean. And finally, finally, he’d come.

The morning-after-letter had been sent and not received a reply. Nearly a week past before Castiel sent another note. Then, another week of lip biting and little sleep, left Castiel writing a third letter with a more direct apology. He also asked sincerely for a return of their friendship if that was all Dean felt safe to offer him now. And still nothing. But now Dean had come. And if companionship was all they might have, Castiel would happily take it. To have Dean in his life at all, right now, felt like a blessing. A blessing that he would do his best to deserve, he thought smiling and running the last few feet. He rounded the corner and saw Sam.

"Sam?” Cas asked, confused. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to pick up your plans for the new foals, Cas. Dean tells me you were meant to have them ready by this time.”

"I see. So Dean is too busy to come himself," Cas said, as cheerfully as he could.

“That’s right, Cas,” Sam said with an apologetic smile. "I have also brought two of your recent letters back."

"Two letter replies at once. Well, I’m happy that Dean has found the time to--"

"There are no replies. Your letters are unopened, Cas. Dean instructs me to explain that you now have his complete faith and trust. You no longer need to submit evidence of your breeding research. Your role as expert advisor is unquestioned. We have no qualms about your ideas for our support horses.” 

Sam smiled again, yet Cas read his pity clearly enough. Worrying over how much Sam might suspect or understand, Cas quickly covered, "Ah! I see. More good news then," Cas replied, forcing his voice not to tremble. "Well, with such a sterling stamp of authenticity, I must endeavor to deserve the name of Expert Advisor. If you will excuse me, Sam—Mr. Winchester” he stuttered, “I should return to my other work now. Father has quite a list for me today.” 

Sam bowed, said a soft good bye and closed the door behind him. 

Cas fell into the nearby chair, his hands shaking and his knees embarrassingly weak.

They were not to be friends then, despite what Dean had promised the last night they had seen each other. 

Since that night, Dean’s face had been burned into his memory. When Castiel closed his eyes, Dean was all he could see. Dean had hypnotized him. Each kiss, soft and sweet, had Dean’s face leaving and returning, leaving and returning, swimming in and out of focus. When he thought of that evening, of how intently Dean had watched him . . . It was as though Dean were trying to memorize every gesture, ever contour, every expression of his face. But it was Dean’s face that could not be forgotten, it was the weight of his body pressing against Cas that he remembered every time he tried and struggled to sleep. 

Castiel wanted to be angry. It would be easier to move beyond this, to forget about Dean, and about that night if he could feel anger. But he felt not a quiver of animosity, not a single tremor of spite. Perhaps, one day, he would begin to feel less and less about the man, good or bad, and he was eager for the day that he would feel nothing. There must come a day when he could look at Dean, and seem him as little more than a stranger. If that was how Dean wanted to see him, then, they were strangers. Not friends. Not lovers. Not family. That suited Cas just fine. Or it would. Eventually. He would feel sad today, but tomorrow, he promised himself, he would put this whole disaster behind him.

Castiel woke the next morning without the giddiness of his usual routing. And, unlike yesterday and the string of days before, he did not jog down first thing in the morning to look for news from Dean. He laid leisurely in bed and tried to relax. This was an altogether missed sensation, he told himself. He was determined to be glad this--this episode--was over. An exciting chapter in his life truly, but life was not meant to be a flurry of agitation. He had felt alive, more alive than ever before. But weren’t there times when that energy seemed explosive, dangerous to others and to himself? He did not want to live that way, did he? He wanted to care for himself and his sister. He wanted to focus on his work and the work that his father and God put before him. That was life--a life he could control and anticipate with joy. The satisfaction of solving a puzzle, of reading and research, of doing a thing right. These were true pleasures. What he experienced--or nearly experienced with Dean—was madness. Wasn’t it? He had thought it romantic or dreamlike, like something from a book, or—when he was most in raptures—as his destiny. Dean had seemed the answer to every question he had ever had about his life and his family. It was almost as though Dean had been a character written just for him—a hero scripted by God himself.

Yet life was not book. 

And it didn't need to be. His father had long thought that the vividness of fiction made real life pale in comparison, clearly he had not been wrong. Castiel determined to read only research and the Bible from now on. He would retrain his mind to think more reasonably, more rationaly. 

Certainly, it hurt that Dean had cut him off directly, as though they were less than friends, less than acquaintances even. He felt hurt, very hurt, a little embarrassed, a little ashamed. But, wasn’t it be possible to also feel relief in goodly doses?  Wasn’t it responsible to be grateful that Dean had left his life? Castiel would simply have to wait until his feelings righted themselves.  

***

No matter how many weeks Cas waited to feel better, his regrets remained unchanged. He circled from praying that he had never loved Dean Winchester to wishing that he had never let him leave his bed. As much as Castiel had been prepared to respect Dean’s feelings and to greet him kindly when they saw each other again, there was no way to have planned for this. 

The social whirl—or what counted for it in Lawrence—had begun with the start of the holiday season. Several neighborhood gatherings were planned, and this dance at the Town Hall was the first he decided to attend. He had practiced smiling and saying Hello to Dean. He had hoped to have a chance to reassure Dean that he appreciated their friendship, that he would like to be a part of Dean’s life in some small way. He had hoped that a kind look would—if not set things right—help repair the breach. At the very least, he wanted to apologize for disappointing Dean, as he so clearly had. But this . . .

"Hello, Castiel,” Dean said, pleasantly, with an easy smile. 

Although Castiel tried to smile in return, he managed merely a grimace, surprised and saddened to hear Dean say his full name. Dean bowed respectfully with an easy grin and then continued on his trip around the garden, taking the lady, Ms. Lisa Braeden, to the punch bowl.

After more than a minute, after Dean had already gone a few paces away, Cas replied with a hoarse “Hello, Dean.” The words were polite, monotone, noncommittal, as Dean’s had been, though the effect was undoubtedly ruined by Cas’s embarrassing hesitance. Cas had paused so long, the words had been mumbled to Dean’s retreating back.

As they walked away, Cas saw Lisa tip her head back and laugh. Cas shuddered.

 _I flatter the investors’ daughters_ , Dean had told him once, _and the investors are pleased by that kind of attention. They believe I am a man that understands value, and then they invest._ _All men are swayed by compliments to the things they create, a man who loves his daughter will put his faith in those men who are smart enough to see what he sees._  

When Cas had asked if Dean worried about leading the daughters astray or giving them false hopes, he laughed and said, _Who would call the hopes false? I do not flirt with the girls, Cas! I deserve more credit than that. I give them the hope of a good time, a good evening, not a lifetime._ For Cas’s part, he had been confused by the distinction Dean made. All the words Dean had ever spoken to Cas had--despite whatever intentions Dean proposed--given him quite a lot of hope indeed. Hope he could not dare put into words, but hope nonetheless. Was this, then, the truth? Cas was only another investors’ child. And Dean had been warm. But he had misinterpreted events. But now he understood. Dean was not promising a lifetime. Dean had wanted a single night. No more. No less. And he had refused Dean. And Dean had no more use for him.

Dean was a flirt and a philanderer. He’d told Castiel that himself, and Cas was seeing evidence of it now. Over the next hour and a half, his stomach churned,  watching Dean dance with lovely young women and rapacious widows. He even spent thirty full minutes smiling and staring at Benjamin Lafitte. Apparently they'd grown close enough in the weeks Dean had not seen Cas for him to call this new friend Benny. The two men teased, they joked, they laughed. Dean touched Benny’s shoulder, knocked him with his elbow when he told a joke. 

Of course, Castiel had spent the last weeks listening for news of Dean. In fact, he had heard rumors that Dean had taken a ride with Lisa the day after the fatal night. But he had dismissed it as mere gossip. He had several such stories—about Lisa, about Benny, about a number of other people in Town—and he had thought them exaggerated babble from bored citizens. But now he knew the truth.

Castiel wanted to delicately cry. That's what his sister or one of her female friends would do to rid themselves of excess emotion. Certainly, any good heroine would weep beautifully in the shrubbery. There was quite enough to cry over. The injustice of it, the fine cruelty. He'd been treated like trash. Worse. 

At least trash elicited a response. 

He was ignored, belittled. Dean had met Cas with complete indifference. And to walk around with that creature Benny, to lean into his every word. After all Dean’s fine words about being Cas’s friend, about respecting his work and his mind, to walk around with that... that... that dandy. He wasn't a man. He was the shape of one. A spur-wearing monster, all shape and sillyness signifying nothing. And Lisa, she was a walking smile, a motorized collection of mannerisms and habits, a wax doll. And Dean spent his time with them.

And the entire room had known Dean to have shown Cas the same consideration before. The implication that he found Benny or Lisa more pleasing or equally so was criticism. Especially since he refused to talk to Cas entirely. 

Castiel was publicly embarrassed, and he had come to the gardens to cry a little if he could, but, instead, he wanted to clobber the fool. Castiel had never desired to strike another human being in his life before. That is not to say the he had never before resorted to force. There were several moments where life had demanded fisticuffs or violence. And he had used firsts more than once to serve justice or to protect the people around him. But he had never boiled like this before. 

Staring at the the statues in the town gardens, he imagined pitching them, with Herculean strength, on top of Dean Winchester’s empty head. He imagined Benny clobbered too, the air of  the man diffused in the pressure of the granite, leaving only the shadow of his boots and cowboy hat behind. 

Looking down at his balled fists, he wished he could regain his composure. Temper tantrums were the the resort of young girls, not fully grown men. And he needed to be calm when Dean came out to check on him. That is, if he concerned himself any longer with a an old friend—an expert researcher that still purchased breeding horses and bulls for his farm— who disappeared mysteriously for stretches of time into the dark gardens during a party. It had been quite some time since he'd left the room, and Dean had not come. The thought should have depressed him. It should have made Cas despondent and inconsolable. Instead it just made him more angry. The man had lain on top of him. He had pressed his naked body against his own. His virginal self--all willing--had been kissed and fondled to a fare thee well, and this is how Dean greeted him after he said no. The consummate dolt. The cad. He’d confront Dean and have his say here or... or... what...?

“Cas?” he heard Dean ask from his left. Dean’s eyes searched the garden, moving past where Cas stood in the shade of the statuary. 

“Cas?” he repeated.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel mumbled, walking forward out of the shadow, deciding that he could not hide there forever.

“How are you, man? You ok?”

“Why do you ask, Dean?”

“Well, you’ve been gone for, like, 30 minutes.”

“No, I mean, why do you ask after my health or wellness? With how you’ve treated me the past several weeks or even the last two hours, it seems unlikely that you care.”

“I’ve been busy, Cas.”

“Even a busy man can show regular care for a friend or respect for an acquaintance.”

"I meant you no disrespect."

"Oh, yes, you did,” Cas said, ignoring the pain that stabbed at his gut when Dean classified him as an acquaintance. “You have ignored me in front of everyone here. I beg of you, Dean Winchester, do not insult me more by pretending that I do not know otherwise. Worse you’ve paraded other people in front of me, making it clear you would rather spend time with anyone other than me.” Castiel shook his head, hating how pathetic and hurt he sounded.

"I thought it would be a good idea to put some distance between us. I hoped it would help you move on, seeing me with Lisa. When that didn’t seem to help, I spent time with Benny.”

“What do you mean help?”

“You sent me letters Cas, even after I stopped accepting them.”

“What are you saying, Dean?”

“I was trying to help you move on.”

"Though I would thank you for the consideration of my feelings and my future, I feel obligated to open your eyes to just how juvenile that sounds. I mean no insult to either of us, but it sounds as though you fancied me one of the poor wild things that you befriended. I am not a mustang, Dean. You can’t befriend me, then realize belatedly that I am better off free and toss a rock in my direction to save me. Fine enough for a tale written for young boys, but I hardly think it suits us."

"You’re right. I’m sorry. But, Cas, we’re both acting kinda weird.”

Cas crossed his arms, unwilling to give an inch and trying to resist touching Dean. Part of him believed that if he could just grab Dean’s shoulder, he could reconnect them.

“Cas, you were hiding in the bushes. What’s going on?” 

“My only excuse is that seeing you here, after... well...after...after what happened, I was thrown into a panic and could think of no other action."

"You shoulda hid behind the statue of the angel, it would have been a better accessory. This—this is…” Dean said, gesturing to the half-nude male figure.

Cas laughed, watching Dean stutter. Sharing a laugh with Dean it was wonderful. It was terrible. A painful mix of nostalgia and misery. 

“Cas, I’ve missed--"

“Dean,” Castiel said, cutting him off, desperate to hear that Dean missed him, but worried that he only missed having a friend. “It was very good to see you. Well, not very good. But long awaited. I am glad to speak with you and hope to do so more in the future. I would welcome time with you. Even if it’s as business associates.” Unsure that he could survive another round with Dean Winchester, he offered a bow and turned away. Castiel saying, ”I have been gone quite long enough. I don't wish to set tongues to wagging, I will return to the party.” Stepping on the path, Cas bid Dean good night.

“Cas, wait," he said, grabbing his arm. "I was wrong. In the way I have handled this--or mishandled it. I apologize. I can’t go back in time, but I don’t want you to leave thinking...thinking...I don't believe you understand..."

"Understand what, Dean?” Cas said overwhelmed, his polite veneer slipping.

“I shouldn't have pushed you, Cas. I shouldn't have allowed you to push yourself. I get it now. I’m not good for you. I’ve been ruining your life since the day I met you. I kept trying to treat some wealthy, pastor’s son as … as what? Hell,” he said, ruffling his hair in anger. “I don’t even know anymore. I know I need to keep my distance. Shoulda kept it from the beginning. You probably wanted that, too. That night, you were horrified enough for the both of us. I know. I just . . . I want you to know that you are better than any man, any woman--any person--I have ever known. I wish you could have seen in me something deserving of you."

“Dean,” Cas whispered, both saddened and shocked by his interpretation of events.

Dean laughed quietly, embarrassed, a self-chastising chuckle. "I get it. I mean, business is business as they say. You know your own value and you should. When you insisted that we try to have—well—that night . . . I misunderstood. I thought...well, perhaps I wasn't thinking very clearly at all then. What man like you wants a broken down cowboy in their bed?“

“Dean it wasn't your business that mattered to me."

"That's the thing. I can't figure out what does matter. I thought at first that you wanted a friend. That you wanted a man good at business, good at running a breeding program that you can talk to and work with, yet that has never brought you toward me. I imagined, then, you wanted a man more interested in you, a—a lover, but I have not been able to convince you. And, when you offered to, well..."

"Put us both out of our misery?"

Dean laughed, loudly, barking at Cas’s rare flippancy. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, shaking his head. "Even then, though, you knew the bargain was not in your favor."

"I suppose I did." Cas said sadly, wondering what he could expect from Dean, but Dean remained a mystery.

"We have both been hurting each other."

"Yes," Cas whispered. 

"I hope we can go on more like what we used to.”

“Dean you returned my letters unopened.”

“I don’t think exchanging daily letters is a good way to get past this, do you? But building the ranch together in small ways will be good. You’re the best when it comes to horses and home gardens, buddy.”

"Yes," Cas whispered again. He wanted to be happy that he and Dean were talking. He wanted to feel joy that they would work together once more to build Dean’s ranch. But his heart remained cold, and no hope sparked there. Just like the morning after his last night with Dean, Cas wondered if he would ever feel warm or hopeful again.

This was why they called it _falling_ in love. His gut tightened in fear and his heart was cold and he was genuinely afraid for tomorrow to arrive. For the past year, Dean Winchester had been his sun and his warmth and his light, and now it was as if he'd fallen into the pit, into perdition itself. And he could find no way out.

**Author's Note:**

> The final part will post on schedule, December 15. Hang in there! Next stop HEA!


End file.
